


A Long-Standing Tradition

by a_silver_sun



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: College era, Fluff, Foggy cuts a mean rug, Gen, Halloween, M/M, Party Crashing, horror movies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 16:27:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20392681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_silver_sun/pseuds/a_silver_sun
Summary: “It’s a long-standing Columbia tradition, Matt. It’s practically a requirement we go. You don’t want to break tradition, do you?”Convincing as Foggy might have been, the sales pitch clearly was not working if Matt’s dubious expression was anything to go by.“Gate-crashing frat parties cannot possibly be an actual college tradition, let alone one exclusive to Columbia University,” Matt said. And sure, he was still wearing his Skeptical Face, but Foggy hadn’t heard a no anywhere in there.





	A Long-Standing Tradition

**Author's Note:**

> Matt/Foggy fluff for cjmonsterwolf!! 
> 
> Prompts included: Matt/Foggy fluff; Matt and Foggy watch horror movies; Death 
> 
> A huge, huge thank you to significantowl, whose help on this was invaluable. <3

*

One month ago:

_ “It’s a long-standing Columbia tradition, Matt. It’s practically a requirement we go. You don’t want to break tradition, do you?” _

_ Convincing as Foggy might have been, the sales pitch clearly was not working if Matt’s dubious expression was anything to go by. _

_ “Gate-crashing frat parties cannot possibly be an actual college tradition, let alone one exclusive to Columbia University,” Matt said. And sure, he was still wearing his Skeptical Face, but Foggy hadn’t heard a no anywhere in there. _

*

Today, October 31st:

“Please tell me that is not your costume,” Foggy says the second Matt returns to their dorm room. And yes, he is aware how whiny he sounds, thank you very much, but Matt was supposed change into a kick-ass Halloween costume while he was down the hall visiting the men’s room, and now here he is propping his cane against the wall and making his way to his bed just as if he weren’t wearing the exact same thing he was twenty minutes ago.

“This isn’t my costume,” comes Matt’s immediate response. 

He’s completely oblivious to the deadly stink-eye Foggy’s leveling at him, but that doesn’t seem to stop Matt from smirking away like a cocky bastard. Because Matt Murdock is a filthy liar. Sure, his black jeans and thin navy pullover is an outfit so typically _ him _it’s doing funny things to Foggy’s heart, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t wearing a costume. He so clearly is. Because on top of everything else, Matt’s also sporting this incredibly silly headband-thing which has little mouse ears sewn onto it, oh, and also he has a long strip of gray fabric tied at the back of his jeans. His costume.

The moment Matt sits on his bed, legs hanging over the edge, feet crossed at the ankles, he starts absently running his fingertips across the strip of fabric serving as his tail. He’s still all smiles though, cocky and sure of himself. It doesn’t seem to be a nervous tic he’s demonstrating here, just something mindless to keep his hands occupied. The crooked line of Matt’s grin widens right before he tilts his head forward, giving Foggy an excellent view of the top of Matt’s head. And just when Foggy thought Matt couldn’t possibly be more of an odd duck, he starts shaking like a dog drying himself off after a day at the lake. Those ridiculous little mouse ears flap at him like a pair of teeny-tiny gray flags, and Foggy does not give him the satisfaction of laughter. 

The gesture is completely lost on Matt, Foggy knows that, but it doesn’t stop him from aiming an index finger at his friend. “I’ll have you know October is entirely too early for snow,” he says, and Matt’s rakish smirk blooms into an enormously dorky and very toothy grin.

Matt looks very--the whole mouse thing is friggen adorable, actually, but the outfit itself looks, well, he hates to say it, but it looks cheap and lazy. Even by broke college kid standards. Ice flashes down his spine as he comes to the realization that the two of them are going to stick out at that party like a pair of strays wandering the Westminster Kennel Club. Because Foggy’s outfit, well it’s a great costume, but isn’t a whole lot better than Matt’s. Most of the pieces came fairly cheaply from either St. Vincent de Paul or the Goodwill. Work clothes mostly. Cover-alls. A hooded sweater he artfully mutilated. Work boots. Gloves.That kind of thing. Oh, and of course a hockey mask. That’s like, the most important part of this whole thing. It’s not a real one, though. Instead, it’s one of those cheap plastic ones he’d picked up from one of those ubiquitous Halloween stores that always seem to materialize in random strip malls this time of year like a retail chain of cobwebbed Brigadoons. 

The mask is sitting on his pillow, staring eyelessly at the ceiling, and when Foggy sets it on top of his head like a hard hat, Matt exhales unhappily through his nose. Then he’s lifting his arms up over his head and working his fingers along the soft edges of his fabric mouse ears. His expression is serious as he says,“This isn’t_ that _ bad, though, is it?” and pulls off his glasses. He looks so young and vulnerable suddenly, and Foggy wonders if he looks the same. He’s reminded that despite everything else, the two of them are still kids playing dress-up. Matt starts playing with the glasses: working the hinges, picking at the temples with his thumbnail. _ This _ is what a nervous tic looks like, Foggy thinks and Matt waits a beat before speaking, hesitates as if he fears giving voice to whatever thoughts are kicking around his head. There's something heavy in the space between them, something cold and hard and it settles at the bottom of Foggy’s gut like a huge, weighted ball. It’s probably only a second or two, the wait, the pause, but it feels like an eternity before Matt speaks. “Sometimes people feel…” he finally manages, but pauses again, shaking his head as if he’s trying to erase from existence the words he nearly spoke aloud. “They ‘yeah-yeah’ you, they. They say certain things because...” Another sigh. Obviously this isn’t easy for him. “They don’t feel… they don’t know how to talk to you so they say things they think you want to hear. Try to. Try to spare your feelings because it’s better than dealing with their own.” A beat, then: “You know?” 

Foggy doesn’t know. He probably should, but he doesn’t. 

He _ does _know that giving the blind guy a hard time over his Halloween costume was maybe a dick move. And all because Foggy’s worried about fitting in with the rich kids? How shitty is that. How shitty a friend does that make him. So he says, “Dude, it sucks you’ve had to deal with that. But nobody’s ‘yeah-yeah-ing’ you, I promise. The mouse thing is all kinds of adorable, actually. I mean it.” 

Foggy’s cheeks burn and Matt beams at him. “People have been telling me.”

“See? There you go. They aren’t just saying it.”

“Thanks Fog,” Matt says, slipping his glasses back on his face. His smile is a little sad, though, a little far away. Lost in memory, maybe. And because Matt’s still an asshole, he adds, “And I’m sure whatever elaborate costume you’ve cooked up will put all those privileged frat kids right to shame.”

“Busted,” Foggy says. He huffs out through his nose because Matt might be blind, but he sure doesn’t miss much. “Anyway,” he mutters and pulls the mask down over his face. He stands in front of the full-length mirror behind the door, checking to see how the whole ensemble looks. “I can’t see a thing out of this,” he mutters and Matt snorts at him. But all in all he’s happy with the results. The outfit looks pretty much the way he wants it to.

“What are you supposed to be, anyway, you didn’t say.”

He sets the mask back in his hair. “Jason,” he says. And at Matt’s blank expression, he adds, “You know. Vorhees?” Matt’s shaking his head no. 

“Is it from a movie, or--?”

“_Friday the Thirteenth _ is a classic horror flick, Matt. How on Earth did you make it all the way to adulthood and not hear of _ Friday the Thirteenth _.”

“I mean, there’s a very obvious reason as to why I might not know a whole lot about movies, Fog. Famous or otherwise.”

That sure gives him pause. “Holy shit,” he says, because: “I am such an asshole.” He didn’t just forget about his friend’s blindness. He didn’t.

Matt laughs at him, the jerk. “I’m not talking about _ this _,” he says and taps at his comically large black glasses. “Though that is part of it.”

No? Then what else is obvious here besides the obvious?

“Oohh,” he says. Foggy’s not normally this dense, he swears. “Is it because of the--” and here he imitates pulling a nun’s habit over his head. Which he then realizes he needs to verbalize. “I just mimed putting on a nun’s habit.”

“I don’t know. I guess.”

Foggy wasn’t raised in an actual orphanage the way Matt was, but he did attend parochial school up until the eighth grade, and that was kind of the same thing. (Sister Haney’s third grade class left scars, man, and not all of them psychological.) So Foggy knew what it was like to grow up surrounded by strict nuns. Obviously not to the same extent. But still. He knew.

And an orphanage filled with little kids probably didn’t screen very many horror flicks.

“Well, you know what that means, don’t you.”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“A watch party, Matt! You and me and Freddy makes three?”

Matt makes a face as if he’s in actual, physical distress. “I’m guessing he’s from this movie, too? What was it, _ Friday the Thirteenth?” _

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised, he really doesn’t. “What else is college good for than to gain an education. And you my friend, have some serious gaps to fill.”

Matt sighs. “I’m not really a movie person? And aren’t horror movies pretty visual anyway?”

“Let me get back to you on that,” Foggy says. But in the meantime, they have a party to crash. “We gonna stand around here all night, or are we gonna blow this popsicle stand?”

Matt stands, makes a show of brushing himself down, then presents his elbow for Foggy to take hold of. “Lead the way.”

*

Matt’s sense of humor tends to be pretty deadpan, granted, but Foggy likes to think that he can usually tell when his friend is joking. Usually. At least until this exchange happens:

“We should go around back; shimmy open a window and slip in that way.”

“What.”

“No, seriously. I’ll show you.” Then Matt whips out a laminated card from his back pocket, a library card or something, and makes an encouraging face at him. “Yeah?”

_ How the hell do you know how to break into buildings? _ he wants to shout, but since he’s not entirely sure of Matt’s sincerity here, he says instead, “Funny. Anyway. Can you imagine _ us _ wiggling in through a window like that? What a visual image _ that _ makes.” Maybe he should go to the party as Winnie the Pooh, that way if he does end up getting stuck in a window, he’d at least look the part.

Foggy adds, “If you have any other genius ideas, please. Feel free to keep them to yourself,” and even on the dark city streets as they head toward Frat Row, Matt’s smile is a beacon.

*

There’s a crowd of students standing in a loose line outside the Brownstones and he and Matt melt into it seamlessly. He’s surrounded by a wide variety of fictional characters and animals and inanimate objects all in varying degrees of creativity and effort. Some look straight from the thrift store like Foggy’s and Matt’s, some look fresh off the pages of a catalog, and still others look painstakingly hand-made. A vague sense of embarrassment creeps up his throat and settles warm and heavy over his cheeks. Getting worked up about fitting in was, in retrospect, a little ridiculous. Everyone’s here to have a good time, same as them. Meanwhile, Matt’s getting more than his fair share of compliments, because of course he is, the handsome bastard, and Foggy’s schlocky throw-back gets everyone around him feeling nostalgic for all those great scary movies from their childhood. 

Foggy and Spongebob Squarepants are lively debating film scores (Spongebob is defending everything from the Ramones to KISS, for some unfathomable reason, but they amicably agree to John Carpenter as the undisputed king.) when he notices Matt seemingly zoned out, gripping his cane tightly, and swaying on his feet. He gives Spongebob a raised index finger, an ‘excuse me a second’ type of gesture and turns his attention to Matt.

He jostles himself against Matt, shoulder against shoulder, and quietly asks, “Everything okay over there?” 

“Huh, what?” Matt says with a start, like he’s been violently ripped away from whatever world he was just visiting. “Oh, no I was just--” he clears his throat. “You were talking about movies and I just kind of… zoned out, I guess. I’m fine though, really.”

Foggy nods, realizes he did and says, “Okay.”

With only a handful of heads left in front of them, it’ll be their turn to somehow sweet-talk their way inside before they know it. 

A female Captain Jack Sparrow walks in the street in the opposite direction the line is moving, and honestly, she looks like she could have stepped off a movie set. Her outfit is that good. The long, matted hair, the bandana, the enormous boots and long coat; he has no problem believing she’s spent a lifetime at sea, captaining ships and buckling swashes.

“I like your mouse ears!” she calls out, tips her pirate hat at them, or more likely at Matt, the compliment’s intended recipient, and disappears into the crowd.

Matt turns to Foggy. “That had to have been for me. Right? You don’t see any other mice near us, do you?”

“I do not see any other mice nearby. Doesn’t mean there aren’t any, though,” and Matt laughs at that.

The big guy in a knitted Pokemon beanie manning the door points at Matt next, beckoning him forward. “That’s our cue,” Foggy says, and they both step forward.

Pokemon Guy says to Matt, “Where are your buddies?”

And Matt and Foggy speak simultaneously. Matt says, “Waiting inside. Maybe you should let us in so we can find out for ourselves,” just as Foggy indignantly replies, “Hey. His buddy’s right here, dude.”

The guy takes a long, excruciating moment to size them both up. The sound of the crowd of waiting students behind him falls away, and the only thing he hears is his own breathing. They’re going to get turned away, he just knows it. Or worse, Matt will be granted admittance, and Foggy will be left out in the cold. 

Pokemon Hat loosens his stance, and then he’s blandly asking to check student IDs. Success! And no B&E required.

*

Somewhere along the way, he’d lost track of Matt. The lights in the house are low and ambient enough to where the press of bodies all starts to look the same. He keeps scanning heads for silly mouse ears, but comes up empty. 

This is probably something Foggy shouldn’t admit to, but he sometimes worries about Matt. He’ll jokingly say things like, “Don’t fall in a manhole!,” or “Careful of those stairs!,” but he’s never entirely joking when he says these things. He hasn’t been given reason to _ think _ these things--Matt gets around just fine from what Foggy’s seen--but who else is going to look out for Matt. Nobody. That’s who. Matt doesn’t _ have _ anyone else, so the job falls squarely to him.

Maybe it’s just as well Matt is MIA because there’s no friggen way Matt would agree to go out on the dance floor with him, not in a million years. The opening chords to “Thriller” play over the soundsystem, and Foggy’s pretty sure he still remembers all the moves. And if he doesn’t then hey. He’s always been good at thinking on his feet.

Fortunately, he’s not the only one out here lurching and zombie clawing like a weirdo. A young woman sidles up beside him and falls right in sync. She’s some kind of goth chick, Foggy doesn’t know. She’s dressed in all black, with a pale-white face, black make-up and an enormous Egyptian cross. That style of cross has a name, but Foggy either doesn’t know it, or doesn’t remember. Anyway, none of that matters. The only thing that matters is the appreciative wave of soft laughter from the crowd of on-lookers as the two of them turn and jerk and claw in time to the music. A handful of brave souls also join in, with varying degrees of fidelity to the prescribed dance sequence.

When the song ends, a smattering of applause ripples around them, then the spell is broken and their small audience evaporates. Right then and there Foggy decides dancing will now be a regular part of his college-going life, Matt or no Matt.

The music fades out into something low and droning as Foggy makes his way to the refreshments table. Rows and rows of bottles line the table; there’s booze, of course, mixers, too, but all Foggy’s face is pouring with sweat. All he wants is water. Peeking under the table, he does in fact find an unopened case of bottled water. “Awesome,” he says out loud. He doesn’t care if the water is warm, he just opens one up and downs most of it one long pull.

“Got one of those for me?” someone behind him says, and the voice belongs to his monochromatic dance partner. 

“One warm bottle of water, coming right up.” 

Even before turning to face her, he knows she’s smiling warmly at him, and he’s happy to be proven right as he presses the bottle into her open palm. Her eyes close and she hums appreciatively. It’s a hair too loud in the room to hear the music, but her head sways along just the same. The singer is droning on and on and on about the undead and as he does, his new friend opens her eyes.

“I met him, you know.”

“Who, the singer?” 

“No,” she says fondly. “Though I will one day.” She sounds certain of it.

“Well, then, here’s to hobnobbing it with actual rock stars,” he says and tips his water towards her.

She winks at him and returns the gesture. “They’re the same as anyone else,” she says. Then: “Thanks for the dance, Foggy,” she says. “And the water. Until next time.” And just like that she’s vanished into the crowd. 

“Huh,” he says, because he believes her. Believes they’ll see each other again one day. He’s not sure why, but he does. 

And that’s when he spots Matt. Actually, it’s Matt’s mouse ears he spots first. Matt’s talking to some guy Foggy doesn’t recognize, or more accurately, some guy is talking to him. And even though his friend is clear across the room, Matt looks pale and unhappy and increasingly uncomfortable. Talking_ at _ him, then. A flash of something passes over Matt’s face as the guy continues gabbing at him, of anger, or frustration, Foggy’s not sure. But he is sure his friend is in need of rescue, and Foggy’s the man for the job. 

He ducks back under the table to grab another bottle of water to take to Matt, and as he comes back up, it hits him. Not the table. Realization. 

_ “Where are your buddies?” _

_ “Waiting inside. Maybe you should let us in so we can find out for ourselves.” _

“He’s one of the Three Blind Mice,” Foggy says out loud and nearly smacks himself on the forehead for missing the joke.

*

Foggy makes the mistake of touching Matt’s elbow before announcing his presence and Matt practically jumps out of his skin. “Matt!” Foggy says through a laugh, “I didn’t mean to startle you, pal!”

“Nah, I’m good,” Matt says. His mouth is pulled downward and though he says he’s fine, he still reaches for Foggy’s arm. Foggy glances at the spot on his arm where the two of them connect, and Foggy decides right there that no matter what happens, his place is here, at his best friend’s side because if Matt needs a rock to grab hold of, Foggy should be that rock. And he will. Because who else is here? No one Foggy can see.

Foggy could still see the guy who had been monopolizing Matt’s time. His retreating back, anyway. When he spotted Foggy approaching, the guy apparently took that as his cue to leave, the coward.

“So what was that all about?” Foggy asks as he hands Matt his bottle of water. Matt mutters out a small, “thank you” before draining half the bottle. He liked to think the best of people, but the conversation he had with Matt earlier in the dorm stuck to him. The ‘just because people mean well, doesn’t mean they don’t cause harm,’ conversation.

“What was what about,” Matt says once he finishes his water and surfaces for air. Then, “Oh,” and shakes his head. “That was. It wasn’t anything. A disagreement. That’s all.” But Matt’s grip tightens around Foggy’s bicep and Foggy wonders if he’ll need to track this guy down.

Matt taps his cane against the floor and seems to come to a decision. “Listen, I-- I mean, you don’t have to, but. I just need-- I’m gonna step outside for a minute. You know. For some air.”

“Through this crowd? Let me help you naviga--”

“I can manage.” That must have come out sharper than he intended, though, because his face immediately softens and Foggy can see the apology forming on his lips in real time.

He doesn’t give his friend the chance to express it. “Are you kidding? I haven’t been this sweaty since fifth grade PE. Fresh air sounds _ amazing _right now.” 

As they push their way through the sea of bodies, Matt says, “Is it true you were _ dancing? _”

Foggy laughs. “You heard that, huh?”

“Well, I heard ‘Jason from _ Friday the Thirteenth _’ has some pretty epic moves out there on the dance floor. So unless somebody else is dressed as the same character, I guessed it was you.”

“It _was_ epic! Got a good crowd going, too.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing I’m blind; that way I can avoid all that second-hand embarrassment.” 

Matt laughs at his own dumb joke and Foggy lightly shoves him for it. “Not nice,” he says and pushes the front door open. The contrast between the stuffy house and the crisp autumn air is a shock to the system and a much welcomed relief to the lungs. He doesn’t usually notice the damp smell of fall leaves trapped in gutters and clogging up storm drains, but he swears he can smell them now, sweet and warm like his favorite sweater.

“Stairs,” Foggy warns, and Matt’s grip tightens as they squeeze past 80s Madonna and an enormous red crayon as he and Matt make their way down the stoop. 

Pokemon Hat is still manning the door and Foggy nods at him just as he and Matt plant their rears on the cold street curb. _ We’re cool, everything's cool. _Bouncer Guy doesn’t say anything to them, doesn’t try to shoo them away, instead he shakes his head at them disapprovingly. Foggy doesn’t know why. Maybe once you’re out, you’re not getting back in. If that’s the case, then, well, that’s okay. He doesn’t mind. He’s exactly where he wants to be.

“I’m very comfortable here,” Matt says. He’s tapping his cane against the bottoms of his shoes,_ tap tap, tap tap, tap tap _, and Foggy wonders what Matt hears in the space between those gentle strikes.

“What, sitting outside in the street?”

“No,” Matt says with a shake of his head and a small smile, but he doesn’t clarify further.

By all accounts, the scene they find themselves in is a hectic one. The buzzing energy of college kids at a party: The music from inside is loud, people are constantly coming and going, still others are milling around near the door, but as far as he’s concerned, there’s no one else here but he and Matt, pressed side by side and shoulder to shoulder.

“So I have this brother, right?”

“Yeah, I think you’ve mentioned that.”

“Theo. You’ll meet him when you come to Thanksgiving next month.”

“Okay.”

“Well, when we were kids--and let’s face it, when we were adults, too--Theo and I would piss ourselves laughing trying to out-do each other with running commentary on whatever dumb show or movie we were watching, MST3K-style.” 

“I don’t actually know what that is.”

“Of course not. They keep orphanages hidden away under huge boulders these days.”

“Hey, that’s not actually-- No, wait. It is. Okay. Go on.”

“Heh. Anyway, I was thinking, how does that sound?”

“Try to upstage you by doing silly voices to movies? Somehow I doubt that’s going to work very well.”

“No, not compete like me and my brother! I just mean, I could do that. For you. If you’d like.”

“Do silly--”

“Forget the silly voices. I just mean I’ve had a lot of practice commenting on stuff. Especially stuff I’ve seen a million times.”

“Sure, let me think about it. Mmm, yeah okay.”

“Awesome. I’m gonna help you up now.”

“I don’t need--”

“I know you don’t. Let me help anyway.” 

He does. And they do.

*

The next night:

Inside his sturdy leather messenger bag sits a stack of DVDs he’d checked out from the library. All classics of the horror genre: _ Friday the Thirteenth; Nightmare on Elm St.; Halloween; _ and of course, _ Psycho. _It was tempting to grab more cases from the shelf, but-- 

“We could do this again next year, too if you wanted. A tradition of our very own?” Foggy says as he goes about setting up the laptop. 

Matt settles in on the bed next to him. “As long as we still get to gate-crash parties, sure.”

Foggy pauses. Turns and really looks at his friend. “Are you kidding? I thought you were miserable the whole time. I spent the entire day kicking myself for making you go.”

Matt laughs and knocks their shoulders together. “I had a great time, Fog. Really. Just. Maybe don’t ditch me next time.”

He was about to protest that, because he did no such thing, but Matt’s crooked grin gives him away. 

“Just watch the movie, Murdock,” Foggy says and hits play.

-the end- 

*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! <3


End file.
